In Blind Alley
by Angeladex
Summary: AKA Scott's Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day. In which our hero falls for an internet scheme before it was even a thing, does not speak Spanish, is basically a loser, and really, really, really wants to punch Mystique in the face. Justifiably, tbh. My imagining of the Season 3 episode. Three-shot. Rated T for violence; borderline M for foul language. Jott visible.
1. Desert

"…Where _am_ I?"

Scott Summers woke up – regained consciousness was probably more accurate – and immediately began a self-assessment without moving, or indeed even opening his eyes. Professor Xavier had always praised Scott's inclination toward strategy. It's what made him a shark at games like Stratego or Risk. Even Billiards, though that was more to do with a practical application of spatial Geometry. He was very good at Geometry.

He was in no pain; not even so much as a headache. He was laying on his stomach, head cradled in his arms. He was hot, but that wasn't necessarily injury. Just annoyance. And _man_ , was it hot as _Hell_. Literally. Not Figuratively. Well, figurative in the sense that he'd never actually _visited_ Hell, more than heard less-than-charming things about its alleged uncomfortably high temperature, not in the figurative sense wherein 'hot' meant 'attractive.' But hey, what did he know? He could have looked damn fine, right now, languishing in some…what? Desert? High temperature, dusty; it even _smelled_ hot, though that acrid taste in his mouth hardly said anything – he sat up suddenly.

"Where am I?!"

Mystique.

How could he have forgotten about Mystique? The taste in his mouth was from inhaling knockout gas from her nifty pen-thing. He had noticed the absence of the weight he'd grown used to having on his nose; no goggles or glasses. That seemed deliberate.

He patted his jacket pockets. No spares.

Shit.

A quick search of any and all other pockets on his person did not produce a visor, either.

 _Shit_.

He wasn't even wearing his costume under his civvies. Not that it would have helped in his situation, the visor was separate from the costume. But it might have made him feel better. And probably made him even more hot, to be fair.

As if Mystique hadn't done enough already. He had already been beating himself up for the last few months after the part she'd played in Magneto's disastrous 'coming out' party. Of the students, Scott had known Professor Xavier the longest. He should have known Mystique had been impersonating him. But he hadn't figured it out until she'd been at it for weeks. Logan had told him not to feel bad; he'd known Xavier longer than Scott had, _and_ he was supposed to be this suspicious, cantankerous, animal-instincts guy. Logan hadn't cottoned on, either.

Scott knew, logically, that he didn't need to blame himself. He'd been assured multiple times by the Professor, by Jean, by Kurt, even, that he was in no way responsible for Mystique's actions. She had gained access to their files, somehow, giving her just enough information to escape suspicion, even from Logan and Ororo. Deep down, though, Scott couldn't help but think that if he had been more accepting of the paternal role that the Professor had slowly started to take on in Scott's life; if he'd been more trusting of the man he knew the Professor was, instead of expecting to be let down by yet another adult in his life….then maybe Mystique wouldn't have fooled him as easily as she had.

Mystique, playing Xavier, had known Scott's powers. She'd known, likely, a little personal information about him as well, if not from the intel she'd read in his file, then from her stint as his High School Principal. It was a far cry from what Xavier knew about Scott. Any buttons that "Xavier" had pushed with Scott, all that talk about how he didn't lose graciously, or how he wasn't a good leader had fed into his own deep fears and insecurities. Fears and insecurities the real Xavier knew about, and would have addressed, in private. The Professor would have been a good parent, in short. And Mystique, clearly, was not.

Scott got up, assessing again. No injuries. No cuts, broken bones, aches, or bruises. Mystique was petty, but apparently not petty enough to beat him up while he was unconscious. She'd said this was payback? Maybe she'd abstained from harming him because he'd never beat her up while she was unconscious, either. They'd encountered before; she'd almost killed him sophomore year, back when they'd first been recruiting, and Rogue hadn't become an X-Man yet; before Mystique and Magneto had gone separate ways. Then there was the matter of a few weeks ago, when she had sabotaged the mansion, sentencing Scott and eight other students to death by fiery explosion just cover her tracks, and probably continue her façade as Professor Xavier.

He'd never tried to kill her, even though she'd tried multiple times to kill him. As much as he probably _deserved_ retribution, he wasn't that guy. He wouldn't be that guy. He'd lived under the thumb of that guy, and hated it. The worst Scott had done was leave Mystique at Area 51. So…it made sense, in a way. An eye for an eye. An abandonment for an abandonment.

He started walking. The skin on his face felt hot, but not sunburned. He hadn't been laying here long. Maybe there was a vehicle nearby. After a thought, he removed his jacket. He'd do better without overheating and getting sunstroke, but if he couldn't find help before nightfall, he'd be grateful for the warmth once the sun stopped heating the dusty ground below his shoes.

Dust. Dirt. Not sand. Interesting. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but he suspected the knockout gas wouldn't have held him under for too long. Not with a dose containable in a tube as thin as a pen. He wouldn't be, say, in the Sahara. Mystique was good, but probably not so good that she could appropriate transportation of an unconscious guy – and Scott was tall! He was not a small man – the countless hours it would take to get him halfway across the world. No…she'd made Scott come to her. If he had to hazard a guess, he would say he was probably still pretty close to Mexico City. Too bad he didn't remember more of Mexican topography, to make himself a map of where any desert areas would be, within, say, fifty miles of the airport.

He walked with his hand outstretched in front of him, taking long strides to cover more ground, hoping he wasn't striding confidently away from civilization. "Hello?" he called hopefully. "Hello? Anybody there?" When there was no forthcoming answer, he chanced a peek: Red-hazed desert, as far as the eye could see in any direction. No buildings, cars, or people. He demolished a sturdy-looking cactus before he closed his eyes again. "The good news? No one was there," he murmured. "The bad news?...no one was there."

He hadn't seen any trees or branches from which he could fashion a cane, and so he continued to walk as he had been; hand stretched in front of him to help him avoid walking into a cactus. Or a rattlesnake. In addition to his long strides, he started kicking up dust unnecessarily as he walked, the better to find hidden rattlesnakes, and give himself at least a warning if he was about to step on one.

And nightfall was sooner than he wanted, which would bring fun new dangers. Nocturnal animals were more dangerous than rattlesnakes. The sun hadn't been beating on him from overhead, but rather to his side: he was walking due north, then, with the sun at his left. The damned flight had taken all of six hours, not counting the arduous wade through security for two hours before that. It had already been noon when he'd left New York, and even factoring in the time difference that was on his side, he knew that all too soon the sun would set.

He did these things automatically, a lot of the time. Part of his strategic thinking, he supposed. The other students could tease him – he was "stiff" or "straight-laced" or "uptight." But he was cautious and prepared. And his life had once depended on it.

When Scott's parents had died, he had been made a ward of the state – Alaska – and when his mutation started manifesting, a burst of red at a time, marking the different homes with unique destruction – a destroyed bathroom here, a hole in the wall there – it became harder and harder for his social worker to place him.

So he'd bailed. Lived on the streets for a few months. It was easier than he thought it would be. And harder. He'd only been thirteen at the time. Then he'd been taken in by Jack. It was great in Scott's mind at the time; he didn't have to hide his powers. Jack knew Scott was a mutant, and didn't care. Jack himself was a mutant. A career criminal, sure, but he kept Scott in school, and warm in the winter, cool in the summer. Better than the streets.

For a while.

Jack started asking Scott to use his powers for him. For his group of associates. And he could usually coerce Scott into agreeing to do it. And when he couldn't use his words, he'd use his fists. They were often quite persuading.

Scott had developed a certain paranoia. He lived with the constant fear that whatever he did would set Jack off. He'd developed a stutter. Jack had tried his damndest to beat the stutter out of him. He suffered with constant headaches, which would be relieved when he used his powers, and so Jack could convince him to use them for him.

Scott realized later that Jack had been a telepath. And after being around the Professor, and even Jean, when she wasn't in full control of her powers, he had found a noted difference in abilities, and come to know that Jack was a _lousy_ telepath. But he'd been good enough at planting doubt and fear and helplessness into Scott's mind that it had never occurred to him to defy Jack – not until their association ended, and it had ultimately led to Xavier finding him.

Scott had been able to find strength in stubbornness, then, when stamina didn't cut it. He might have given in and used his powers to do what Jack wanted, like destroying safes or breaking into buildings – but he did it _his_ way. He wouldn't hurt people. And if he heard people who might be remotely in his line of sight, he wouldn't open his eyes, no matter if Jack beat the shit out of him for it.

It was an endurance game, now. He might be playing Mystique's game, and suffering in the desert, but he wasn't delirious with sunstroke, and he had gathered enough information to kind of know how to get help, if he was able to get to some form of civilization. He was stubborn. He had nothing else to do, so he just let his thoughts keep running. He'd glean information. He always did. The Professor had only been able to beat him at Stratego because he was a mind-reading cheat.

He grinned. His spirit hadn't broken yet, if that was Mystique's intent. What then, was it to be?

She'd taken his sunglasses, and his spares. Of course she knew he couldn't control whether his eyes emitted the beam or not when they were open. She had known as much as Principal Darkholme. She'd called him in Alex's guise –it chafed him anew that he'd fallen for that trick, too. He could only blame Jean. She'd been distracting him. With her stupid existence and her damn beauty. 'I'm lost in a foreign country and have no money, wire me some.' – that was more recent intel. That wasn't something she'd known as Principal Darkholme. She had recent information, likely gathered from the files she'd gotten ahold of.

Still, it was just surface information. If she'd known more in-depth information, it would likely have changed her locale; Professor Xavier, along with Jean, had long since surmised that the headaches he used to get when he didn't use his powers were due to his self-imposed blindness; that the ruby quartz that made up the lenses of his sunglasses actually absorbed the beams, it didn't block them. Additionally, the energy of his optic blasts was powered by the sun. He would fatigue slower in full view of the sun than somewhere in equal isolation, but dark. By trapping him in the desert, she was giving him extra energy for the endurance game.

Also, though she could hardly know this, her blowing up the Institute had served to force him to take up running again, in lieu of his normal activities of billiards or movie-watching, and he'd been slowly building distance over the past few weeks. It meant that even as he felt the sun at his back, and he was hot, and thirsty, he wasn't exhausted.

He used to run, in the beginning of his time at the Institute. The Professor didn't have leisure activities set up for young people yet, and Scott had just come from rocky circumstances, cutting ties with Jack, being hospitalized, accidentally destroying part of the hospital; Scott had needed a healthy coping skill, and all the Professor could offer in the moment were a pair of running shoes.

Scott had marveled that he had the same size feet as the Professor at the time; he'd never thought about the life the Professor had lived before his legs had been taken from him. The Professor had only commented that the shoes were lightly used, and needed a purpose.

Jean wasn't a runner, though she had offered to go running with him on a few occasions; she loved sports, and had signed up for everything she could their freshman year, just so she could feel involved. She had isolated herself after her mutation manifested, and it had been hard for her. As she got better control of her powers, and learned to tune out the thoughts of others, she was eager to join the human race again. She was different from Scott. From how Scott had been.

Well, no. He hadn't changed all that much. Jean had been in Soccer, Photography, Geology club, and Field Hockey. She had at least one friend from each circle, and would likely find her own photo dotting the yearbook continually.

Scott would be lucky if he'd remembered to come on School Picture day. He had tried the patience of many a photographer with his "eye condition" that required he never take his sunglasses off. The only non-mutant friend he had was Paul Haits, who had been conveniently scarce at school since the big fiasco of Magneto's. It had been lonely.

"Anybody?" he called again. How long had it been? How long had he been walking? He hadn't noticed, but he wasn't as hot. Had the sun set already?

As if in answer to his question, he heard, not far off, the distinct howl of a wolf. No. Desert. A Coyote, then. Shit.

They hunted in packs, and had likely locked his scent.

 _Shit_.

He listened hard, trying to determine where the howl had come from, but all too soon, he heard growling. Much, much too close.

Shittyshittyshit.

He could hear more growling, and in firing a shot in the general direction earned him a moment's clarity, awash in red. There were more of them than he'd thought. And they were closer than he'd thought. And they weren't scared off by his blast. They just kept a cautious distance. They knew their numbers could overwhelm him.

 _Superior numbers don't win fights. Work smarter, not harder._

Scott wasn't sure if it was his own thought; it almost felt like when Jean spoke to him in his mind, though this was different, somehow. But it did ring true, whether from his many games of strategy planning, or his time as field commander for the X-Men; and it did calm him, somewhat.

 _Run_ , he thought. _Force them to chase_. Some would be faster, some would be slower, but it would allow him to engage them in lesser numbers. The alpha would probably lead the pack, as well, and if Scott were able to defeat him, the others might get scared off.

It wasn't much of a plan; the coyotes were fresh, and ready to kill him, and he had been walking for hours in the hot sun, and was more fatigued. It cost him speed. But it was the only plan he had, so he ran.

Every once in a while, he would glance back, following the progress of their panting breath, and fire at random. It was enough to startle their formation, but it also kept them chasing him. He was probably making them angry. A few times, they got too close. He lost a whole sleeve of his shirt when he bodily threw a coyote as it leaped at his throat.

It was his own stupidity that almost killed him. He found himself tumbling down, down, realizing he'd neglected to pay heed to his surroundings. He'd wandered off some kind of precipice, and it was a long way to fall. He smacked his head but good, and then it was lights out.

 _Shit_.

….

AUTHORS NOTE

When I'm blocked, I seem to write Scott. I like him. He's a dork. Too bad I'm so mean to him. Too bad canon is so mean to him. Too bad he's so easy to be mean to.

Fun fact: Did you know my huge story began this way? Unstable Origins? I wrote Scott because I was blocked writing anything else: homework, original pieces, what-have-you. And I realized I had written 21,000 words in a rough draft. And I was intrigued.

Scott can get me writing if nothing else can. This will be a three-shot, methinks. Blind Alley is my favorite episode, and my sister hates it, and I've seen it 13 billion times. :)

~Angeladex


	2. Alley

NOTE: This chapter rated M for language.

Scott regained consciousness—for the second time that day, thank you – without opening his eyes. Assess. Assess. He relaxed somewhat. First, because he was really damn sore, and wearing his anxiety in tense muscles _hurt_. Second, because he felt the unmistakable softness of a bed beneath his back. He wasn't in the desert anymore. He wasn't at the mercy of the coyotes anymore. And that, at least, was an improvement.

He heard someone nearby. Beeps and ambient chatter—words he didn't understand, not for lack of trying. Likely a hospital.

" _Señor? Me llamo Dr. Ramierez. ¿Comprende?_ "

Where they spoke Spanish. It was too fast. He wasn't ready to do this yet. He hadn't finished assessing. His head was pounding. He'd been keeping his blasts in check for too long. They wanted out. He struggled to remember the limited Spanish he'd been exposed to. ' _Comprende'_ meant 'understand.' And he only knew that because he'd learned how to say ' _No comprende'_ on the plane to Mexico, all of a few hours ago.

"Uh…Not really," he managed; his tongue felt thick. Not ready to attempt the foreign movement that Spanish required. It was too fast. Assess. Assess. He propped himself up on his elbows. His head throbbed in protestation. Laying down had been better.

"Ah, you speak English!" the doctor switched easily, and barely spoke with an accent. Scott was relieved. "An oil rig crew found you in the desert and brought you to Mexico City. You're lucky to be alive," the doctor continued seriously. Conversationally. Scott tried to focus faster.

"I – I have to make a phone call," Scott managed to bite out, stuttering slightly as he opened the sentence. Shit. He sat up, ignoring the screaming protests of achy muscles and that pulsing behind his eyes. He needed someone in his corner. He needed to not be alone in Mexico fighting off coyotes and sunstroke. He would love to not be in the same country as Mystique, too. That would be an awesome bonus. He flinched slightly at the feel of the doctor's hands on his shoulders, gently but firmly pushing him back into a reclined position.

"I am afraid that must wait," the doctor's voice said coaxingly. The tone he'd adopted was something between concern and condescension, and Scott felt a surge of annoyance. The annoyance evaporated with the doctor's next words: "I want to check for a concussion. Open your eyes, please."

"No!" Scott said, perhaps a little too quickly. He probably _did_ have a concussion, to be fair; he had the symptoms, but the symptoms of a concussion seemed remarkably similar to the symptoms of falling down a cliff after wandering in a desert for a few hours and being chased by coyotes, all while a powerful force of destructive energy built up exponentially behind your eyeballs because you couldn't channel them through the lenses of your glasses, built specially to absorb the beams, not block them, like your eyelids did.

He covered his face with his left hand. "You can't do that," he said certainly, trying to push away the doctor's hands from his face. He felt clumsy and ineffective as a toddler. He needed a plan. He needed more damn time to think.

" _Señor,_ please –" the doctor was cut off as Scott _pushed_ him forcibly away. _"¡Sostengalo!"_ He said the last word like an order, and before Scott could begin to puzzle out what it meant, he felt firm hands on his shoulders and arms, holding him down.

Shit.

"No! No, don't!" Scott said pleadingly. This felt familiar. It had happened before. In a hospital, force building up behind his eyeballs…a whole floor of the emergency wing of the hospital destroyed.

The good doctor ignored him.

 _Shit_.

The roof gained a new skylight as the force of the beam from Scott's eyes blew through the light overhead, and then the ceiling above that, and then the roof above that – Scott saw stars bleakly against the brightly-lit backdrop that was Mexico City, before shutting his eyes. It had barely been five seconds.

Words started to occupy the space in the now darkened, smoke-filled room in rapid-fire Spanish, sounding at once concerned, surprised, and angry. In the confusion, Scott realized he was no longer being constrained, and he took the opportunity to exit the room quietly, trying his best to not breathe in the smoke and dust; coughing would give him away.

Scott was lucky – once he got out of the room he'd been in, he heard outside sounds amidst the confusing murmurs of the hospital patrons and staff. He would have hated to open his eyes to orient himself, just to injure someone else. He went quickly toward the doors, and knew he'd exited the hospital.

Stairs. There were stairs now. They surprised him, but he took them in stride not breaking his desired pace much. There would probably be orderlies on his tail, and if he didn't lose them now, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to—

Shit. Assess. Assess. _Assess_ , dammit! What was he doing? His head was throbbing anew, after the blessed relief that had come when he'd opened his eyes. He couldn't _think_. He hadn't had to think through this pain in so long, he was out of practice. He was mildly alarmed that he'd seemed to revert to "flight" mode so quickly. He was better than this! Why had he run?

Because the last time he'd destroyed a hospital, three years ago, he hadn't run away, after. And the tension in the room whenever his vitals were checked was thick enough to choke on. Because being a mutant made him a monster, to them, and it could make trouble.

Because in that moment, he had been sixteen again. He hadn't trusted anyone to look out for his best interest, let alone actually help him.

Scott stopped running. Slowed down. Assess. He'd let his feet guide him instinctively away from what he'd perceived as danger, but he still needed a phone. He needed to call the Professor and end this. He jumped violently when he kicked a trashcan. He didn't hear sirens, or cars…he didn't hear people. Shit.

"Someone help me!" he called. This wasn't the desert anymore. There were people somewhere. If he could just _think_. Listen. Strategize. "Please help me!" he tried. "I can't see!"

Everything in him screamed that this wasn't a good idea. This was how tourists got robbed in New York. Shit. His brain wasn't processing fast enough. And he _hurt_ , now. The adrenaline that had fueled him thus far was starting to ebb. There were scratches on his shoulder, his head, and a scrape that was sticking to his torn shirt. They stung, which meant, hopefully, that they'd been cleaned at the hospital before he'd woken up. But they hadn't been dressed, so that wasn't certain.

This was more like it. Logic. Thinking faster. His brain was compensating for the headache, now. He found a wall. Trailed his hand along it, trying to avoid more trashcans. The wall was cracked, and despite the heat of the day, cold. He judged the sun had set several hours ago, then.

The air wasn't hot, either, but it didn't feel cold to him. There was a smell. It was familiar. The smell of garbage that had been set on fire. He was thirsty. But not cold. Shit. He probably had heatstroke.

His hand brushed plants, stone, cracks…metal. Further exploration proved it to be…a container? It was too tall to dispense newspapers, and…it was a phone booth. No way! He immediately picked up the receiver. His fingers found the '0' key, depressing it firmly. There wasn't a dial tone. "Operator? Operator!" he said in frustration. No dial tone. He'd found a phone, but…his fingers found the end of the phone cord, trailing from the phone like a dead snake.

He threw it aside angrily.

His ears picked up sounds. There had been the fire smell, before. Probably pretty close, but now there were footsteps. Running. Away from him? He listened. And then continued walking. Footsteps slow and achy; his hands trailing the cold wall, partly to guide him, partly to support him.

There was a wrought-iron gate of some kind: a house? And Scott tried opening it, but it was locked. And he continued, feeling broken stone and brickwork under his fingers. What time was it? What should his plan be? Assess. Damn it, it was so tired…His head hurt…He had developed blisters, on both heels and the side of his left pinky toe. He was pretty sure the one on his right heel had burst already. The skin on his forehead was hot to the touch. _Shit_. Either he had gotten sunstroke, or this was a fever? Evidence of a concussion after all? No, that would be…a stomachache. Maybe. He couldn't remember.

"Hey! _Gringo_!"

They'd surprised him. There was more than one. What the hell did 'Gringo' mean? He turned in the direction of the footsteps (Shit, how had they surprised him? There were at least three sets of footsteps. _Shit_.) "Look, I don't want trouble," he said preemptively. Authoritatively. No stutter. Good. In English, though. What if they didn't speak English? God, his head was pounding. Throbbing, right behind his eyeballs…

"But still you have it." In English, though with an accent. Angry. " _You_ are the _Americane Mutante_ who blew the roof off our hospital, no?" He wanted a fight. Shit.

"That was an accident," Scott replied. Calmly. Reasonably. He didn't want a fight. He didn't want trouble. He wanted a goddamn phone. He was angry, but not at these guys. Mystique. He wanted to punch Mystique. In the face. He also wanted an Aspirin. Oh, God, Aspirin.

"But…who will pay for all the damage?" A new voice. Slower, but also speaking English with an accent. Jeez, did everyone in Mexico speak English? In different circumstances, Scott might have felt sheepish for knowing less Spanish than his potential assailants did English.

"I'll pay for it," Scott said agreeably. "Just…help me call my friends, and they'll bring you money." He winced. That was maybe too much. He sounded desperate. Which…well, he was. But it couldn't hurt him to play things closer to the vest. Assess. Falling off that cliff had majorly slowed his processing down. Not a good strategy. He couldn't think fast enough to get ahead of his surroundings.

"Yeah, well…maybe…we don't have a phone," the second voice said. Oh, shit they just wanted to fight. The hospital was just an excuse. Assess. Assess. There were three of them, though possibly more. They had stopped walking toward him as they spoke, though Scott was pretty sure he'd subconsciously backed away from them.

His posture was defensive as they came deliberately closer. And when they managed to grab his arms and bodily throw him, Scott was happy he managed to keep his eyes tightly closed, even as he landed hard on his back, gouging the already-existing scrape on his shoulder deeper as he hissed in pain. A trashcan lid rattled as it spun on the ground, dislodged from its can when Scott had knocked it over with his head. Oh God, his head…

He found his feet fairly quickly, considering he wanted to throw up. Maybe he really did have a concussion…"Please, don't do this." His voice wasn't shaking. Good. Not stuttering. Good. He was using gestures (not the rude ones he kinda wanted to use, either) and keeping his posture open, but he was still standing defensively. They would _not_ be doing that again. "I don't wanna hurt anybody," he finished. Back straight. Mild intimidation. One of them had gripped closer to his elbow than his shoulder when they'd thrown him, and Scott knew he had height on him.

They'd been walking closer to him as he spoke. Three. There were three. Unless they had a really quiet friend who was sneaking up behind him. Scott listened hard.

"And that is what makes you different from us, _mutante_ ," said the one with the slow voice. Trying to distract him. One lone set of footsteps coming up on his right. Scott turned, lunging at the would-be ambusher, only slightly surprised as he succeeded in pinning his assailant to the wall by the collar. He'd lost his bearings, and the wall was closer than he'd thought. He was glad he hadn't pushed harder – he might have given _this_ punk a concussion.

"You really want a piece of this?" he snarled, the pounding pressure behind his eyes _begging_ to be released. He obliged.

He almost hit the guy in the face. God. He saw the alarmed expression. Just to the right of it, as he blasted the wall. And closed his eyes again before he saw through the wall. He'd held back, but he'd really almost blasted the guy's face. Shit.

 _"¡Vamonos!"_ gasped one of the others distantly. Retreating footsteps. Good. Scott willed his voice to stay steady.

"You gonna leave me alone now?" he indicated to the one he was still collaring. The one who hadn't made a move to escape. Maybe he'd been so scared he passed out? Maybe –

"Bravo."

Scott's body seemed to move of its own accord in response to his slack-jawed shock. No. No. Shit. Shit. _Fuck_. Mystique. It was…It was Mystique. He stepped backwards. The hell away from her and her unpredictable sweeping kick. Three, four, five paces.

"Go ahead," she taunted. "Open your eyes again. Maybe you'll demolish some family's apartment."

He _should_ have blasted her in the fucking face. Shoved her hard enough to concuss her. Assess. Damn. His heart was hammering in his chest. He worked to not clench his fists like he wanted to. He wasn't shaking. He _wasn't_. "Just…get away from me." Lackluster. More angry than defeated. For now. He deliberately turned, heading the same direction he'd been going before, albeit without the wall at his side to guide him.

She practically jumped to stand in front of him. His hands came up defensively. She would sooner fight him than keep talking. And he was, as she damn well knew, not as his peak. Falling off a cliff will do that to a guy. "What's the matter?" she said sarcastically. "You don't like being _abandoned_?"

And she was a fucking child. Getting petty revenge on him was more important to her than any of her other schemes. Somehow, the thought grounded him. He was angry. But still calm-angry. He wasn't going to punch her in the face. Hard. Yet.

"You've had your fun," Scott reasoned, a façade of calm logic in his voice. Until he realized he had balled his hands into fists after all. "Now end this!" he barked. Confidence. Authority.

"Oh, no. The fun's just begun," Mystique sounded giddy. "How about we try the North Pole next?"

She wasn't attacking. She wasn't – Oh shit. Scott swiped blindly in front of him. The hit connected, and he heard her hypno-pen-thing clatter away.

"Fine," Mystique spat, no longer sing-songy. Well, thank God for small favors. "We'll do this the hard way."

It was going to be a kick. Probably sweep his legs, or else –

He flew backwards for the second time in five minutes, a sledgehammer-like force hitting him square in the chest. She was fast. And she wasn't pulling her punches. But she never did. Scott supposed he should be flattered she didn't hold back just because he was a kid.

He wasn't, though. Was he. Not a question. He wasn't some ragged thirteen-year-old trying to make it on the streets. He wasn't some scared freshman under Jack Winters' thumb. He was a few weeks from being eighteen. And he'd stopped being a kid a long time ago. Weird. It had sort of…crept up on him.

How did that stupid song go? How many roads must a man walk down before you can call him a man? At least he wasn't thinking about his headache anymore. His body crashed through a wooden crate, and he assessed quicker, to test for broken ribs. None. Yet. He whirled his face in Mystique's direction and opened his eyes wide. If he could get in a shot when she didn't think he'd try, he might just hit her.

Relief. Blessed relief. The energy surged out, and it felt so good to not keep it pent up behind his eyelids…

 _Kid. Don't it feel better? When they're open?_

Jack. Having Jack's words in his head was disconcerting. Even if Scott knew they weren't real. It was just words in his memory.

Mystique dodged. Did some kind of flip/twist off the wall, and the beam shot happily past her. He kept his face high. Tried to track her as she twirled through the air like some psycho acrobat.

 _Like Kurt._ The thought wasn't his, either, but it wasn't Jack's. It felt familiar, though it hadn't had…a distinctive voice. He'd have to puzzle it out later.

He closed his eyes. She'd flipped in front of an apartment building. He listened. She wanted him knocked out. So she would go for power. Kicks. Probably made more powerful if she used gravity as extra leverage…

He ducked, and heard her grunt as she sailed over his head, twisting to absorb her impact in the wall – and using the action as a springboard to get him from behind.

Shiiiiit, he flew. It took all he had to use his training and instincts to try and fall safely without opening his eyes. But he was pretty sure she got a rib that time. Or three.

He stood. Headache was forgotten. Fever was forgotten. He knew this. This feeling – utter survival mode – had been his "stable-functioning" norm for two straight years when he'd lived with Jack. He ignored the ribs. Ignored the scrapes, though the ones that had gotten cleaned at the hospital sure _felt_ longer than they'd been before… He listened.

Inside. They weren't in open air, anymore. He heard Mystique's footsteps creaking. Wood.

He took the offensive, before she put him back on defense. He blasted her. Or at least…he should have. She dodged again, at the last second. The blast was wide without his visor to focus it, and it clipped an interior beam before continuing toward the open door. Right into the rear tire of an SUV, which promptly shot into the air and landed on a pickup truck.

"Oh, no." Two cars. Oh, God. Had there been people inside?

"I told you," Mystique said harshly. "Better keep those eyes to yourself."

Assess. Assess. Logically, there wouldn't have been people. Not with how late he assumed it had gotten. The heat had been absent from the alley wall long enough to leave it cooled. He hadn't hurt anyone. But the damage toll was raising. A hospital repair, two cars…

Mystique got another firm kick in. He tumbled, end over end, knocking his head and barely avoiding biting his tongue off. She had the upper hand because she didn't care about hurting him. And the idea of hurting people with his power was abhorrent to Scott. He'd been on the receiving end of that kind of abuse of power, and he would never perpetrate it.

But he'd be damned if he just let Mystique kill him because he wouldn't fight back.

He listened. Listened hard. She was further away. Higher? She was…she was going to get the drop on him after gaining some height , just like before. He tucked into a roll, evading the drop she'd landed, and stood at the ready. Listening. Listening. She wasn't punching. These were all fucking kicks. So when he heard the floor creak, and the pause as she readied to attack again, he was able to block her. Because he knew she'd go for a high kick.

She didn't pause. But she didn't get a hit in, either. Or…kick, rather.

But he couldn't hit what he couldn't see. It was all he could do to evade. She seemed to sense that he could predict her moves now, though, and started to use her fists. Managed to grab him and shove him, getting him off balance…as his leg broke through the wood and stuck fast.

Assess. Assessassessassessassess. Not bleeding, through the grace of God. He'd torn a hole in his knee earlier, but the splintered wood hadn't scratched through his jeans. But that didn't mean it wouldn't be able to. He grunted, trying to pull his leg out. He could practically hear Mystique's giddiness. She didn't bother hiding her tread on the creaky floor. Probably doing some fancy twirl for no reason. He listened, and aimed a blast specifically for where her feet would be that second. He was good at that kind of thing. Angles and Geometry. She should have remembered that. She'd awarded him a certificate once when she was his principal.

The floor exploded.

 _Shit._

….

AUTHORS NOTE

Ahh, this one might inched the rating up? I just figure...a movie gets an 'R' rating if it has 3 or more usages of the 'F' word, which...I think I got.

I don't know when I fanonically made Scott a potty-mouth in his head, but I did. No offense intended.

One more to go! I am posting 2 chaps at once because I didn't think I wanted to post it on here until I was into the third section. :D I know a lot of my followers got to know me through XME, so this is fun.

Feedback adored! Faves, too! :D


	3. Warehouse

Apparently there was a basement to whatever-the-hell building they had been merrily destroying. A florescent light buzzed and crackled once the blood stopped pounding in Scott's head long enough for him to start assessing again.

Footsteps. Running. Ribs broken. Head pounding. A bruise forming on his hip and his right palm, by the heel of his hand. Defensive wounds from the falls that hadn't managed to kill him due to his training and instinct. These all were bad things. They should stop hurting him so he could think.

Sledgehammer kick to his side. Another broken rib to join his collection. He slammed hard into unforgiving stone. He pushed himself up, shooting a blast in the direction of the crackling florescent light. Basements meant darkness, right? Maybe he could even the playing field a little?

He was making desperate guesses at this point. He was acting without strategy. This was survival mode. This was raw, instinctual desperation driving him, now. He wanted to get out. Get away. He wanted to punch Mystique in the fucking face. He wanted a goddamn phone so he could call the goddamn Professor to come pick him up and bring him some goddamn Aspirin.

He got up. Ignored that he hadn't held his breath this last fall around, and had gotten the wind kicked out of him. Ignored at least four cracked ribs, screaming at him in protest. Ignored what would tomorrow be a veritable collection of lovely football-sized bruises of various depth and seriousness that littered his back, his chest, his elbows, and his knees. Ignored the scorching temperature of his skin, from a fever that physical exertion couldn't sweat away. The vertigo he experienced in the simple task of trotting in a wavy line away from the area he'd landed after Mystique had kicked him there. Being able to act beyond his own limits had been beaten into him once, too. It was how he'd survived as long as he did.

He listened as he forced quiet breaths to be drawn through his nose against protesting lungs and ribs. Listened to uncertain steps walking vaguely in his direction. Assessed.

He'd killed the sole light source, then. Earned himself respite. Mystique had been depending on her sight through this fight. Scott hadn't. And Scott had depended on fighting without sight before. Mystique probably hadn't. She should have known, for example, the many times her heavy stepping had given her position away. Now included. She stepped with an obvious uncertainty, caution making her slow and less confident in her actions.

As her eyes adjusted, she would probably find a source of light. The hole they'd made and fallen through would probably work. Scott forced himself to concentrate. He oriented himself without opening his eyes. He'd grown adept, years ago, at making mental maps of places he was in. Even having only seen this basement area for a split second as he'd blasted the florescent light into darkness – even having only his blank, blind-man account of space, he was pretty confident in his surroundings.

It was spatial Geometry. He was very good at Geometry.

Mystique, meanwhile, had picked up her pace. She'd found the hole, then. Made her way toward the light that had come through the new hole.

It was a bad strategy. It would have been better to stay in the darkness. Waited longer for her eyes to adjust.

Pirates had known that trick. Many pirates wore eyepatches, despite not all of them having missing eyes. In keeping one eye in constant darkness, they were afforded instant immunity against night-blindness. They could see in the dark without waiting for their eyes to adjust, because one of the eyes already had.

As she stopped walking, Scott, his breath regained, allowed himself to crow a little at her lapse in judgement. "What's the matter?" His voice was strong. Unwavering. Angry. Baiting her. "Can't you see?"

He was rewarded with her angry attempts to land a blow against what she couldn't see. Her very vocal attempts. He was grounded in knowing her position, and even pushed her from the shadows.

How frustrating. To know that someone was there, but being unable to punch them in the face even as they taunted you.

She left her safety light, and where Scott was crouched and ready to sweep her legs, actually knocking her off-balance, flat on her back. And very likely igniting her short fuse.

She stepped carefully, now. She was able to take him by surprise as feeling along the brick support column actually accidentally brushed his arm. He evaded her uncertain attacks, but she managed another hard kick to his chest, which slammed him into another column. Luckily, in her anger, she was very vocal. It made it easier to track her movement, and easier to evade her next punch.

She had put enough force behind her attempt to put a hole in the brick. Scott heard it crack and crumble next to his left ear. Much as he had done earlier when he'd shot a blast next to her face without knowing it.

He didn't have time to marvel how much that would have injured him had she actually connected. How childish it was to put that much anger into an attack when your goal is to immobilize your opponent, not destroy them.

He grabbed her arm, instead, pulling back from its failed attack, and angled quickly to twist her into a throw. He pulled hard, down, pushing her into the throw with his legs rather than his shoulder, which wouldn't give as much distance, and took satisfaction from the terrific crash she made as she landed, unable to twist into a fancy acrobatic move. She'd only done it to him five times, turnabout was fair play. See if her fighting instincts cushioned her ribs.

He'd earned a breather. She had been so angry, he figured he'd hear her getting up. He all but collapsed onto a crate of some kind, groaning as his ribs protested, half-standing, mostly leaning, listening hard. Assessing. If she came up behind him, he could use the crate as a fulcrum at his back, put more force into some kind of kick or evasion, whereas if she managed to get on his other side, there would be a crate in the way, and it would be easier to dodge –

"Scott? Are you down here?"

"Jean?" What? How…what? He knew her voice. Knew it better than his own. It was Jean. Why was Jean here? Shit, why was Jean here? "Jean! Watch out! Mystique's in here somewhere," he said quickly. Listening. Assessing. It was gonna be a lot better with backup. Especially as he assumed Jean was fresh, and she could use her powers without fear she'd make the building collapse. Well…she could make the building collapse. But her powers had a lot more finesse than his did, right now.

A part of him was reminded of the Jean he'd left behind…the Jean he'd wanted to speak with…to tell her…to ask her…had that really been earlier this afternoon? It felt like years…But the part of him that he allowed to speak was pure Cyclops. Field Commander. All strategy and orders, intel and assessing. If she had a field name, he probably would have used it first.

"No, she's gone! I saw her escape," Jean corrected him. He heard her footsteps coming closer She kept an even pace. Cautious. Smart.

Scott was still leaning on the crate, still ready to fight if need be. But…how was Jean here? The thought wouldn't get out of his mind. It wasn't that he minded the cavalry, he was just floored that it came without him calling. Had she flown on her own? Was there anyone else here? Had it been a commercial flight? Or did Logan pilot the X-Jet? It would make a difference as to how fast the distance was covered between Bayville and Mexico City. "How did you find me?" he finally asked. It sounded…more Scott than Cyclops. He was letting his guard down. Was that wise yet? He listened hard. Where was Mystique?

"Cerebro led me right to you," Jean replied. She was probably ten feet away, now. She kept up her slow, cautious pace. It was weird, even in battle simulations in the Danger Room, Jean could be reckless about endangering herself and others if it meant rescuing a teammate. She would rush unnecessarily to see if an injured teammate was hurt, sometimes at the detriment of the exercise. She was showing an awful amount of restraint, now. That slow pace, when all she probably wanted to do was run to him and see if she could psychically ease any of his hurts.

And another thing…the Professor had always maintained that Cerebro wasn't necessarily a precision tool. It wasn't powerful enough to pinpoint someone. It could find mutants because it was a computer as well as a psychic tool; finding Kitty or Todd Tolansky, for example, had been precise because the computer had located an address where they went to school, or lived. Kurt had been harder, because he travelled with a circus in the summers, and they'd had to find other information the old-fashioned way. Or when he and Rogue had gone to the city to find out about Angel, last year over Christmas break. Cerebro hadn't pinpointed him, then. It had picked up Alex when he'd used his powers, but finding him at the beach had been a coincidence. The computer would have guided him to his foster parents' house.

So…why would Jean say it that way? "Right to this warehouse?" he found himself asking. Disbelievingly. But not so much so that it sounded harsh. Just questioning.

"Exactly," Jean agreed. Like nothing was wrong with how she'd said it. Like…she didn't know this basic nuance about Cerebro, which was ridiculous. She had even more insight about it than he did. She'd actually used it before. "Relax," Jean said soothingly. She was about two feet away, now. Even, slow pace. "I'm here, now."

"No, you're not!" Scott blasted her. Got her, too. A firm blast to her core. If it really was Jean, she'd understand. He hadn't blasted her at full power. Just enough to knock her away from him. If it really was Jean, she could put up a shield with the speed of a thought. But if it wasn't Jean, it'd knock her away long enough for…something. He'd think of something.

He heard the crash as Jean landed. No, not Jean. It had been Mystique. He heard what he'd been listening for. Mystique, angry. Mystique, growling, vocalizing her progress as she barreled back toward him, ready to fight again. She was twenty feet away. Ten. Five.

Scott didn't even have it in him to stop her attack. The respite hadn't fueled him to keep going. He was exhausted. He was still breathing heavily. He tensed for impact. A kick, probably. What else would she do? She'd likely knock him out. Maybe he'd find rest in unconsciousness while she transported him to the North Pole. That was her plan, wasn't it? Or maybe she was done or bored, and she'd snap his neck. She was just crazy enough to do it. She'd been ready to sentence the new recruits to death by fiery explosion to keep up her façade as Professor Xavier. Children. Jamie Madrox was twelve fucking years old. Amara Aquilla was fourteen.

No, he had to fight. Had to keep fighting. Couldn't get killed by Mystique. Where was she now?

He heard her, still. Vocalizing her movement. But…not getting closer to him. Not kicking his head off. Was he…was he out of it? She sounded like she was…floating away from him?

"My turn."

Scott frowned. Had Mystique transformed into Jean again? Why talk to herself? Was…was Jean here for real, now? He shook his head as the same thoughts from before swirled circles in his thoughts. How would she even know he was here? But…if it wasn't Jean, why wasn't Mystique killing him?

He heard a crash. Mystique's vocalized groaning. "How sweet," she growled. In a very Mystique voice, not a Jean voice. "Girlfriend to the rescue." She was taunting again. Taunting Jean? Jean was really here, now?

"You got that right, lady," Jean's voice rejoined, angry. From some…ten feet above him and to his left. And her voice was so much…more _Jean_ than Mystique's impression of her had been.

Scott tensed, ready for some kind of action, whatever it might be. He listened. Mystique was generously giving her position away vocally, and Jean was giving Mystique's position away with a lovely array of crashes that Scott really wished _he_ were causing. His ribs were still screaming at him as his breathing got less shallow; as his lungs calmed down and actually delivered air to his system, they pushed against his tender ribs, and they didn't like it. And in turn, Scott really didn't feel sorry for any broken ribs a telekinetic thrashing might cause to Mystique right now. And he really, _really_ didn't feel sorry about the ominous cracking, crashing sounds he heard in time with Mystique's groans, as he remembered, in high speed, each time today she'd thrown him into or through something. She fucking deserved what she fucking got.

There was a bigger crash. Mighty, and crumbling. Like a whole pillar had fallen down. Which it damn well could have. Scott's legs decided they weren't going to work anymore. The rest of him seemed to follow suit, even as he heard Jean's concern, calling his name. "Scott!"

She was there in a second. He had felt her presence in his mind before she physically reached him: she'd eased his descent to the floor with her telekinesis, and when she touched down next to him, she finished what had started as a psychic aid, transforming it seamlessly into a physical one, easing his head to rest on her shoulder instead of the crate. She was cognizant of his injuries, though they didn't show, with the exception of those few scrapes from the coyotes. Her hand slid to his shoulder—his good one, not the scratched one, and he knew she was wearing worry on her face.

The adrenaline was fading again. "Jean?" he said weakly. If this was still some kind of trick, he was in trouble. "Is it really -?"

Her other hand – the one that wasn't on his shoulder – went to his face, feeling his fever. "It's me," she said distractedly. "Don't worry, Mystique is gone," she added. Her hand was cool against his face. She was saying exactly was he was worrying about. This was Jean. But…

"I can't believe you even knew where I was," Scott muttered. His head felt heavy. Jean pulled it close, and he rested it more fully on her shoulder.

"It must be a bond we have," she answered seriously. "I…don't know how to explain it." She brushed his hair out of his face, as if to distract herself from the words. Like she was afraid he wouldn't understand. Like he was going to think she was weird, or crazy.

This was Jean. This was so Jean.

"You don't have to," he said, matching her tone. And she didn't. He understood. They'd been through so much together since they'd met. It was kind of what he'd been trying to articulate to Logan this morning. He'd felt it, too. Like…he'd been almost sure she'd helped him a few times tonight, even though he was so far out of her psychic range, she couldn't have. There were things that she'd never told him. That he just knew. Which wasn't possible. He wasn't psychic, _she_ was. When they'd first met, she had always complained about how strong his psychic shielding was, but she hadn't mentioned anything about it since her powers had spiked. Since their bond had been forged. He tried for a weak smile. "I just…wish I could open my eyes. And see your face."

She didn't answer, but he knew it had been the right thing to say. She guided his head to rest on her shoulder, and kept her cool hand pressed against his hot face.

"Logan's gonna be so upset," she said at length. "He was sure he'd find you first. But I guess my instincts were better than his, this time."

"The student has surpassed the master," Scott quipped. "You…you know you've arrived when you can out-Logan _Logan_."

"Maybe he'll run into Mystique," Jean said – there was a trace of distaste in her tone.

"Maybe it'll be good for her to be cut in half," Scott growled darkly. "It sounded like you dropped a brick wall on her."

"Well, sorta. She slipped out when my attention was on you. Sorry." Scott felt a sort of pressure he'd long since associated with some form of telekinetic assistance, and found he was breathing without as much pain. Like Jean had found a way to move his lungs out of the way of his tender ribs.

"You always do that. Put your teammates ahead of the mission," Scott chided, though not with any realness or chastising.

"I could always leave you here and try to help the Professor search for her telepathically," Jean retorted, though without intent to follow through on her hollow threat, or, indeed, to even remove her hand from its place stroking his face.

It was nice.

"S-So how're we getting out of here?" Scott said at length. His body had started to shiver, and he felt the irritating dichotomy of wanting heat and cool – the feeling that always accompanies a fever – and Jean was pensive.

"Can you stand?"

"H-haven't t-tried in a b-bit," Scott shuddered. He tried to oblige, wincing as he put pressure on his ribs. But anything he did would do that, so he tried his best to ignore it. Holding his breath and leaning heavily on the crate for support, he stumbled upright. "Ta-da!" he cheered half-heartedly.

Jean hadn't left his side, and she had risen with him. "The Professor won't be able to land close by. Let's see how far we can get," she said logically.

And Scott was floating. Up, up, up, through the hole he'd made earlier. He remembered the first time Jean had tried telekinetically lifting something heavier than her own mass. The first time she'd tried lifting herself. He remembered when their danger room strategy had revolved around avoiding triggering an alarm by way of Jean holding both Scott and Kurt above the sensors at the same time, and how she'd complained they were too heavy. That had been a lifetime ago.

Jean's fingers interlocked with his, and he was surprised – he hadn't known she was lifting both of them at once. His orientation was completely useless. He was floating in a black void. But the difference was that he felt utter serenity in Jean's presence. He probably trusted her more than any living soul on this Earth.

And it seemed only moments later that Scott felt a cool, strong wind around them; Storm was here. Lending support to Jean.

It was over, then. He was safe again.

"Mr. Summers, where are your glasses?" came Storm's rich voice at length. Scott grinned.

"P-Probably in the l-lost and f-found of the M-Mexico City Intern-national Airport," he answered through the shivers that still wracked him.

"Let's get you a new pair, then." Storm's voice was next to him, concerned. He felt his own temperature sort of…even out. Could she do that? And he presently felt the solid bulk of the x-jet under his feet. He bit back a wince as he carried his own weight, and Jean released his hand to wrap her arm around him, behind his shoulders. Supporting him, in case he needed it.

"Do we need to detour to the hospital, Scott?" This from Professor X, even as Scott felt his psychic presence at the surface of his mind.

"I'd r-rather have Mr. McCoy look me over," Scott admitted. "I d-don't think the hospital here would appreciate my return. And…they m-may or may not have gotten a new skylight."

Logan chuckled out loud.

Jean deposited him in one of the seats, and he felt her brushing his hair away from his ears, pushing a pair of glasses up his nose. "Okay…go ahead," she said at length, after adjusting them gently a few times.

He opened his eyes.

And saw Jean's face.

"There. Is that better?" she wasn't smiling, but Scott heard the almost tease in her voice. He smiled.

"It couldn't _get_ any better," he replied readily. Purposefully. No stutter. Not even from the fever. He took her hand in his, and she _did_ smile, then…and she kissed him. On the cheek. But still. Nice way to end what probably made the top ten in Scott's worst day ever chart. And he'd had some doozy whopper bad days.

"It's about time," Scott thought he heard Logan mutter, and he felt Jean's smile without looking at her.

"Get some sleep," Jean intoned softly, about a half-second before he yawned widely. "You have some healing to get a head start on, and I know you're exhausted without even reading your mind."

"We'll talk when I wake up?" Scott murmured, already half-asleep at the suggestion. Jean was helping the feeling along, he was sure. She'd never approved of his minimalist sleep habits.

"Only after a minimum of six hours, mister."

"Four."

"Six."

"Four."

"Eight. And I can and will out-stubborn you, Scott Summers." _I hear it's a special talent I have_.

"Six." _Cheater_.

"Wise decision."

"Ha."

"Sweet Dreams."

She really was a cheater. She was nudging him into a sleep cycle telepathically, and Scott wasn't even sure that was ethical. Moral? Probably not legal, either.

Tomorrow would dawn, lovely bruises would bloom, and Scott would be a horrible second day tragedy of broken ribs and tests for risk of concussion, and Jean, in sweet irony, would lose sleep in her task to keep him asleep…

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

...

AUTHORS NOTE

Still writing. Hopefully improving! Let me know! I had wanted to do some more XME close-ups. I rather enjoy super-analysis of the canon episodes, mixing in my own head canons about the characters. And my favorite characters have some awesome episodes to analyze...

Best!

~Angeladex


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